Personal Carnage
by Sarah Serena Rose
Summary: The wall didn't look that hard. Of course, Dean knew his knuckles would disagree. But pain was one unhealthy coping mechanism he could handle.


"Doesn't look too hard."

He stood gazing at the wall for another moment, clenching and unclenching his right hand before hauling back his arm to send his fist straight at the wall. The resounding crack and sensation of pain quelled the rage, if not for a little while.

_Gotta have a distraction _

Dean pried his knuckles back from the wall with a muffled groan and cradled his fist.

"Nuh, I was wrong," he choked out into the empty room.

Sneaking a glance at his hand, Dean saw the tiny breaks in the skin of his knuckles and the small trails of blood pouring from them. They were red, sure to bruise in the coming hours. Peering back towards the wall, he regarded it with a small amount of shock due to the large fist shaped hole residing in it and the minimal damage it had done to his hand.

Thankfully, the stinging sensation in his arm had abated, for the time being anyway. The anger and rage that bubbled underneath his skin was replaced with an alternative: pain. Not the best substitute, but better that trying to drown himself with whiskey.

Dean clenched his jaw and retreated towards the kitchen, quickly rummaging around for the first aid kit hidden under the sink. Gathering the materials, he set everything down on the island and opened up the ancient container, making sure dust didn't get into the tiny cracks in his skin. They hadn't had an occasion to disturb the kit in the kitchen yet, so the dust was thick. Not that they could say that anymore.

Grabbing gauze, antiseptic, a few butterfly closures and thicker bandages from the kit, Dean set them aside to take a breather. Shutting his eyes, he leaned his weight against the counter and tried to focus on the task at hand – _no pun intended_ – instead of the recurring thoughts spinning through his head.

_hand, right. have to keep distracted_

If he was being truthful, he was starting to scare himself a little. The anger and need for bloodshed, it was a festering wound spreading throughout his system, overtaking any sort of self-awareness and decision. Dean knew the Mark was changing him, he wasn't that naïve or able to deceive himself in such a way when the affects were plain to see.

He just didn't want to accept it. To know that his impulsiveness had finally won and he was going to turn into something that they usually hunted; a monster.

The blade was a whole other situation, the unexpected desire that made his hands shake in anticipation for the next time he'd have it in his possession. The power and pure energy pounding in his veins, he was afraid of what he'd do to feel that same exhilaration again.

Taking a deep breath, Dean could have laughed at the changes the last five years had brought. Somehow, it seemed him and Sam had traded places. But now that he _knew _what it felt like, to crave something so badly and not be able to get it, trying to fight the urges: it made him revaluate what his brother had truly gone through. And the resentment he held for judging him so harshly when he had no idea what it was like…

Dean sighed, pressing his palms down flat on the counter to try and ignore the prickling starting to make itself present on his arm again. He knew Sam was aware of what was going on with him; the furtive and concerned glances, the constant questioning if he was okay.

_nope, not one bit. _

But hell if he was going to admit to it.

He also knew that Sam was doing his best to try and respect the way he was dealing with everything, even if it wasn't healthy. He had gone in search of a drink a few days back and found that all the liquor bottles had been moved, probably hidden by his brother.

Foregoing any attempt to wrap his hand, Dean stared hard at the wall and slowly closed his eyes, zeroing in on the way his knuckles throbbed. The pain, he could deal with. But the mere thought of destroying everything and everybody he cared about, it was unimaginable.

Dean took a deep breath and willed himself to fight the memories, the way the blade had made his whole body hum. He had to fight, for his sake and Sam's. He couldn't make any more mistakes and succumb to the darkness; he couldn't let his brother down again.


End file.
